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Updated: June 14, 2025
The information it bore was simple, and yet exceedingly definite. Few men in dying as Breault had died could have made the matter easier for the police. On the envelope he had written: Jan Thoreau shot me and left me for dead. Have just strength to write this no more. Francois Breault. It was epic a colossal monument to this man, thought Sergeant Fitzgerald, as they pried the frozen body loose.
God means that judgment and happiness should come in their turn." Jolly Roger rose to his feet, facing the south. "It is a temptation, father. It would be hard to give her up now. If Breault would only wait a little while. But if he comes NOW " He walked away slowly, following through the balsams where Nada and Peter had gone.
He warned me not to take a chance that you'd slit my throat in the dark without a prick of conscience. And I'm a valuable man in the Service. It can't afford to lose me." McKay shut his lips tightly, and did not answer. "Now, while you're helpless, I want to tell you a few things," Breault went on. "And while I'm talking I'll start the fire, so we can have breakfast. Peter and, I are hungry.
For she saw Peter under Jolly Roger's hand. But it was not Peter who drew her breath short and sent fear cutting like a sharp knife through her heart. Facing them, seated coldly on a log which McKay had dragged in from the timber, was a thin-faced sharp-eyed man who was studying them with an odd smile on his lips, and instantly Nada knew this man was Breault.
It was not a new or unusual sound to him. He had listened to it many times during the last two years. But never had it thrilled him as it did now, and he felt the blood leap in sudden swiftness through his body as the sound bore straight in his direction. In a flash he remembered all that Pierre Breault had said. Bram and his pack hunted like that. And it was Bram who was coming. He knew it.
From looking at him one would never have guessed that Breault loved his joke. He nodded. "Good morning, Jolly Roger McKay! And good morning, Mrs. Jolly Roger McKay! Pardon me for watching you like this, but duty is duty. I am Breault, of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police." McKay wet his lips. Breault saw him, and the grin on his thin face widened. "I know, it's hard," he said.
Yet Breault was seeing everything. Five times that morning he saw Peter, but not once did he make a sign or call to him. He drove his raft ashore at twelve o'clock to prepare his dinner, and after he had built a fire, and his cooking things were scattered about, he straightened himself up and called in that same matter-of-fact way, as if expecting an immediate response, "Here, Peter! Peter!
"Francois Breault!" he heard her breathe at last, as if she was fighting to keep something from choking her. "Francois Breault dead killed by someone " She rose slowly. His eyes followed her, a shadow in the gloom as she moved toward the stove. He heard her strike a match, and when she turned toward him again in the light of the oil-lamp, her face was pale and her eyes were big and staring.
And yet, even in this hour of supreme happiness that held him half mute, there was always lurking in the back of his brain a thought of Breault, the Ferret. In the star dusk of evening the time came when he spoke his fears to Father John.
Breault and the hunters of the law were the one worry that lay ahead and behind him. If he outwitted them he would find Nada waiting for him. Day after day they kept south and west until they struck the Thelon; and then through a country unmapped, and at times terrific in its cold and storm, they fought steadily to the frozen regions of the Dubawnt waterways.
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